


Eight Touches

by konacher7258



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7578229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/konacher7258/pseuds/konacher7258
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sam and Dean settle into their new relationship, Sam begins to take a greater interest in Dean's weight gain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Touches

1.1  
“Sam, I think I’m gonna run to the store.” 

Dean’s voice comes from the bathroom down the hall. The door is open but his words are muffled by running water and garbled by what Sam assumes is his toothbrush in his mouth. 

“What for?” he calls back. He’s leaning against the counter in the kitchenette, looking over a stack of last night’s research while coffee brews in the motel’s decrepit coffee maker.

The water stops, Dean spits, and a second later he appears in the hallway. “Got a taste for donuts, maybe get some more pie. We need anything?” He plucks a discarded button-up from the couch and discovers a half-full packet of m&m’s hiding beneath it. Delighted, he grabs the bag and empties it into his mouth before shrugging into the shirt.

Sam frowns. “Didn’t we… did you finish the pie we had?”

“I gotta eat, Sammy, what do you expect?” Dean grins. His freshly-brushed teeth are chocolatey brown.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, his eyes falling to where Dean’s belly sits round and wide atop his belt. The black Metallica t-shirt he’s wearing barely contains it, pulled taut against his skin and still revealing a sliver of underbelly. Sam realizes with a shock that the last time he saw Dean in that shirt the fabric had been able to cover him. And Sam knows Dean left his button-up undone because he can’t even get close to fastening it over his stomach. He should really dissuade Dean from another pie. “We could use more beer,” he says instead, looking back up at Dean. 

“Okay.” Dean puts his keys in his pocket, but then he turns away from the motel door and walks into the kitchen instead. 

Sam realizes belatedly that Dean has come for a goodbye hug. He pauses for half a second before meeting his brother’s embrace, feeling Dean’s paunch spread against his own hard stomach as his arms wrap around him. 

Sam loves how affectionate Dean is but he’s still adjusting to the change in their relationship. He’d been surprised to discover that Dean was so cuddly. Sam wasn’t—isn’t—very demonstrative and he had expected the same from his gruff brother. Instead Dean had an unreserved way of giving affection that Sam found puzzling but incredibly sweet. 

He accepts Dean’s quick peck on the cheek and then lets his hand stroke over the curve of Dean’s belly as he pulls away. Dean gives a tiny jerk at the touch and Sam smiles when he sees the slightest hint of pink rise on Dean’s cheeks.

1.2  
“This isn’t turning out to be as simple as I thought it’d be,” Sam sighs, tossing aside a sheaf of research. “I think we better go through the records at the library.” 

Next to him, Dean is slurping his third extra-large hot chocolate with double whipped cream and sprinkles. He looks far more invigorated than Sam feels, even though Sam matched him with three espressos. In fact, Dean looks like he’s never been happier, in spite of a painfully bloated gut and the faint sloshing sound Sam hears when he leans forward to put his cup down. Sam finds himself wondering what Dean’s belly feels like when it’s so full and the skin is stretched so tight. He wonders what kind of sounds Dean would make if he rubbed it until his belly was flabby and pliable again.

“How about you go to the library and I’ll interview the witness,” Dean proposes, pulling Sam out of his reverie.

“We already did. She didn’t know anything.”

Dean’s sly grin betrays his deadpan tone. “She told me she had tons of information. As long as I came back alone.”

“Dean-” Sam begins, wrinkling his nose.

“I’ll only be an hour,” he cuts in, raising three fingers in the scout’s honor.

Sam scowls as he mulls it over, trying to decide if it’s too soon to be as possessive as he feels. He knows when they were first feeling things out—uncertain and confused and directionless— that Dean was continuing on as usual with girls. But it’s been a while since Dean showed interest in someone else. Long enough that Sam didn’t feel a need to discuss it with him, not that Dean ever tolerated relationship talks. To this day, the best he’s gotten out of him is an admission that he just doesn’t _know_ how to talk about his feelings, despite having them in spades.

“Dude, I’m not gonna mess around with her!” Dean gripes indignantly. He struggles against his swollen stomach to sit up straight in his seat. “I just want to see her tattoo. She swears it’s a portrait of James T. Kirk that William Shatner personally drew on her ass with a marker. You wouldn’t deprive me of an experience like that, right?”

“Fine,” Sam concedes. “But be at the library in an hour. One hour.” He leaves Dean in the booth and goes to drop his paper espresso cups in the trash bin. On his way back he leans down and pokes Dean in the gut. Just like he imagined, Dean’s belly is so full that it doesn’t even jiggle. “Don’t forget you’re taken,” he tells him.

Dean groans and slaps his hand away. “I couldn’t if I tried, sasquatch.”

Sam grins and leaves Dean to finish his drink. His brother is never more transparent than when he’s being sarcastic.

1.3  
There’s blood running into Sam’s eyes. Furiously he wipes a hand over them, trying to clear his vision fast enough to catch the flicker of a reappearing ghost.

“Sam! Drop!” 

He hears Dean’s yell but he can’t see him, thwarted by the darkness and tall grass. Instinctively he throws himself down on the ground, then hears the crack of a salt gun firing over his head.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean snarls. 

Sam can hear him about twenty paces away, grunting as he struggles to get to his feet. He’s either hurt or he’s gotten way more out of shape than Sam thought he was. Sam doesn’t know which one to hope for. Then he catches sight of Dean staggering through the grass. He’s obviously limping, probably on a twisted ankle, but he’s only a few feet from the open grave. It’s a lucky thing they had the grave dug, salted, and doused with lighter fluid before the spirit showed up. Though it would have been more lucky if they’d had ten more seconds to light a match and drop it in. Dean catches Sam’s eye and tosses him the shotgun, then digs furiously in his pocket for the matchbook.

“Hurry,” Sam presses. He sees the ghost materialize a few feet away and shoots it full of rock salt.

Dean’s fingers are scrabbling through his pockets. “I can’t find the matches. I must have dropped them.”

“We don’t have time to dig through the grass,” Sam decides. “There’s a lighter in the car. I can be back in five minutes.”

“Then go get them!” Dean growls.

Sam looks at Dean’s wide outline in the sparse moonlight. He’s leaning heavily on his good leg and panting. Sam stumbles forward, his own legs suddenly seeming shaky and weak. “Take this,” he orders, pressing the shotgun into Dean’s palm. His hand darts forward to scrape his knuckles gently over the curve of Dean’s gut. “Be careful, okay?”

Dean stares at him. “Go get the fuckin’ matches!”

Sam jerks his hand away and takes off sprinting through the grass. He’s worried about Dean, and worried about how hard it was to leave Dean in danger. But he pushes those thoughts away in favor of concentrating on the task at hand. Another shotgun blast rings out behind him and he forces himself to run faster. 

1.4  
“Man, I’m starving,” Dean declares, flipping on the lights in their motel room. “We should have stopped for dinner.”

“With you limping like that and blood all over my face?” Sam scoffs.

“Right,” Dean says. Then adds, “why don’t you towel off and go get me some grub.”

Sam would have expected nothing else. “Order some take-out and I’ll pick it up when I get out of the shower.”

Dean grabs the collection of take-out menus on the table and lowers himself into a chair with a wince.

Sam turns on the water in the shower and listens to Dean placing his order. Predictably, he orders a truckload of Chinese food. But surprisingly, Sam is not annoyed by that at all. Maybe he’s still running high on the adrenaline from the cemetery. He remembers the fear he’d felt leaving Dean. It might have been nothing more than worry that Dean’s size would affect his ability to handle himself on the hunt. Though somehow he still feels a certain pleasure in the thought of Dean’s enormous Chinese order.

Ten minutes later Sam is clean and dressed. He discovers Dean leaning one-legged against the counter at the kitchenette, balancing a pie tin on the shelf of his belly. He at least has the decency to look sheepish when Sam catches him with the fork in his mouth. 

“Dude, stop eating. I’m about to go get your dinner,” Sam grouses.

“I’m hungry!” 

“Look at it this way,” Sam begins. “We don’t have a fridge. The pie will keep but the take-out won’t. So you’re going to have to eat everything you ordered tonight if you don’t want it to go to waste.” Sam waits for the look of tortured confliction to cross Dean’s face, then moves in to take the pie tin out of his hands. He has a valid point about the fridge but mostly Sam is holding onto hope that he can get a piece of the pie before Dean devours it. Plus, if he’s honest, he really wants to see what Dean can make of all that food. Dean is sucking on the fork like he’s still torn so Sam adds, “how about you prove yourself with the take-out and _then_ eat the pie, alright, He-Man?”

“Dude, that makes you Skeletor,” Dean retorts, but he begrudgingly drops the fork in the sink.

Sam rolls his eyes, then steps forward and pulls Dean in for a goodbye hug. He sees the little flicker of surprise in Dean’s eyes—not that Sam can blame him—before Dean happily melts into his embrace. Sam holds him for a minute, relishing the softness and warmth of his body. He likes that Dean feels substantial and solid against him. Likes that Dean feels _big_. Sam releases him and steps back, then realizes that Dean’s belly still fills the gap between them. He takes another step back so that he can raise a hand to Dean’s dimple of a belly button. He lets his thumb stroke over the soft flesh bulging around it, relishing the way it gives under his touch.

Dean looks down at Sam’s thumb circling his navel. He holds still a second longer, then steps back and points a finger up at Sam. “You better go get my dinner or I’m eating the pie.”

Sam gives him a lopsided smile. “Go park your big ass and wait for me to get back.”

“You love my big ass,” Dean smirks as he limps his way towards the couch.


End file.
